Well itís a rum do is all I can say, donít think this Getz fella could ever run a mine. I signed up for a bit of action but he seems to be just a bit of a shopaholic. Kind of always felt that was a Sheila type of thing meself. Put in my two penneth anyway Ė Winterteeth Pass is a tad chilly this time of year so I tipped off the boss and we were duly furred up.*

*Furred up you ignoramus but I hear what youíre saying

Got Skippy a great little cage warmer too so heíll be snug as a beetle in a burrow. One interesting priority emerged, a, ahem, camp follower was signed on for letís just say, supporting services. She cooks and er, looks after any other little needs we might have. Her nameís Ulrika Frolick. Only the Phantom Mr Smith declares outrage at the prospect of a little companionship. Clearly a raving pouffda if you ask me.

Join up with our careless* Prince, Maximillian plus servant, Vaclav. Prince is a bit of a toff, more interested in writing his journal. Perhaps if heíd kept more of an eye on his brother instead of his publishing deadlines he wouldnít have quite so many troubles to write about.

*Now what did I do with that kingdom?

We travelled south for a few days and were soon into the mountains. The weather turned a bit erratic and in one storm I had the misfortune of parting company with my horse Razor. Ulrika the wizard and Getz had similar experiences. Personally I was always a bit concerned about the livestock, looked more valuable than a good prop in a cave in, fine for dressage perhaps but real work? Never trust a horse thatís taller than you are and has never had to drag the motherlode through a flooded mineworks in pitch black wearing blinkers. Thatís what I say anyway eh Skip?

Any way, moving on and we met a stranger a couple of days further south. Skippy was nervous and I smelled a tunnel rat and moved up to the Prince, all bodyguard like. The boss man seemed to feel that looking after your principal is best achieved by moving further away from him. He took the elf with him because apparently he can talk, so whilst the three of them chatted niceties to our potential friend up front, his dozen mates jumped us from the rocks and bushes on either side.

Surrounded and outnumbered! Divided and surprised! We were off to a flyer and thatís no error. The fight was short and sharp: Mr Smith pulled off his horse, I got off my death trap just as quick as I could. Up front, Ulrich and Getz managed a synchronised dismount onto their heads. Ferg the elf actually managed to land a solid blow on the decoyís head but I took a couple of hefty sword blows. The Prince and his servant both managed to kill opponents and with three or four others wounded, the bandits fled.

We got out of there, many of us bandaging our wounds. The wizard seemed to come out alright, heíd charged down an attack on the Prince and was practically the only one of us unhurt. Getz then has a go at us for letting the afore mentioned Usurpee get a scatch. This after, (as I pointed out to him,) his shabby act of desertion and cowardice.

We put some distance between ourselves and that accursed spot after rounding up the stray horses and looting the corpses of the pair whoíd got themselves offed. Ulrika then showed some hidden talents* cooking up some healing herbs, and by the time we reached the Travellersí Joy a few days on we were almost whole.

*Most of her talents are pretty obvious

A great meal of squashed potato, some sort of local delicacy and conversations with some passing merchants. Latest rumour: The orc Bloodaxe Alliance on the rampage. Canít be true, they havenít been heard of in a hundred years. Sometimes you wonder how these crazy tales get started. Probably someone saw an orc once.

Moved on with some regret, they really had some bonza cooking there. Came upon a sacked village a couple of days on. Obviously recent work judging by the percentage of corpses still with eyeballs despite a significant local crow population. Couple of dead orcs amongst the debris with Bloodaxe tattoos. Honestly, the effort people put in to spreading these rumours. I mean who would go to the effort of tattooing orc corpses just to lend credence to a fanciful story. I mean who would fall for that?

Mitchell Getz of course. He decided that we were on full alert now with the return of the Bloodaxe orcs, extra watches that evening, lots of tense by passing of possible ambush spots and halts for scouting. Hardly surprising then that I had to rest my peepers for a moment during my watch. Anyway, no harm done, they were probably just wild dogs not wolves who woke us up rummaging through the camp. Skippy would have warned us if there had been any real danger. Managed to convince the boss that all was well any way, luckily he was on my watch and had been resting his eyes too. That slippery Smith seemed suspicious, but then, he always seems suspicious.

Talking of unfounded suspicions, we then ran in to Severin an old friend/ acquaintance of the Prince. Coincidence? No. Sent by Dalmatin, a definite ally of our charge. He and his men fall in to our company escorting us the rest of the way after initially attempting to get rid of us. The princeís man is definitely unhappy and frankly every one of us except the Prince sees this latest development as an unhappy one. Civil wars are confusing things as everyone wears the same uniform and speaks the same language. This seam is looking less promising by the second. When that happens you either bring out the dynamite or start again somewhere else.

The dynamite option would be attacking our new friends, the start again option involves abandoning our toff to his fate and possibly our pay. We ponder this through an evening where we share watches with Severinís men. We very sensibly have an extra person on watch discretely as we donít trust these strangers an inch. Sadly our double cover option fails with the wizard falling asleep. Iím on duty when my companion starts acting up. Iím springing into action when the alarm is luckily raised by the noise of the Princeís throat being cut.

Severin and his men, true patriots all then explain to us at knife point, how our services are no longer required and the true king thanks us for the excellent discharge of our duties. Getz is about to ask for a reference for future users of our escort agency (as our previous employer is unlikely to provide one) when we are interrupted by a party of orc tourists asking directions.

We decided to leave, spurning the bag of gold curlishly tossed our way by Major Severin, Kingís Assassin,* and left the good major and his men to enjoy some no doubt high spirited japes and party games with our orc friends. We developed an immediate interest in the age old question of just how fast is it possible to proceed through a forest at night with just the clothes on your back and a pair of brown trousers without colliding with trees, falling over roots or getting lost.

*Because Mr Smith didnít bloody pick it up, díoh

In the morning, having answered that question and washed the afore mentioned trousers,* we took stock of our situation. We had completed our mission having kept our Prince alive until the very second that he died; lost much of our supplies and equipment; put a considerable wilderness between ourselves and any strongly fortified outpost of civilisation; whilst simultaneously establishing ourselves in the centre of an area currently being ethnically cleansed by ancient orcish foes. Just lucky I guess.

We moved south again and found ourselves approaching another village. This one had a quality about it that we immediately found endearing: It was still standing. Obren was a slightly odd place, the head man Franz took a very phlegmatic approach to our warning of orcish raiders, Apparently, when your numberís up, your numberís up. After a great feast and promise of later entertainment, we were sent east to another village.

This turned out to be a very strange journey, one that took an interesting amount of time.* Instead of the promised destination, we came upon a small hamlet by some cliffs. Conversations here indicated that we had travelled back in time 101 years to the time of Emperor Dieter IV. After some home generated entertainment including the mysterious impressions of Ulrich, events were interrupted thank goodness, by the arrival of a bedraggled dwarf, who told a tale of doomstones, orcs and peril. Noracís tale was still ringing in our ears as we retired, to awake, apparently back in our own time.

*Many years in fact

We were in the middle of the long overgrown ruins of the hall where we had supped only hours before. Half way down the nearby cliffs lay the skeleton of Norac, still clutching the satchel he had guarded so closely a century ago, or was it last night? Well I shimmied down the cliff face with no trouble and brought home the bacon. On a scroll case inside, a message from some beleaguered dwarves, trapped in caves behind a waterfall, complete with map showing us how to find them.

Are they still there? Are they a hundred years older, or as lively as the Bloodaxe orcs obviously are? What are these doomstones of which they speak? Is this causing the time travel? Do they have one or more? Do the dwarves have one or more? What do we do if we find them? What will happen if we donít? Itíll be nice to get underground again any way. Thatíll sort the men from the boys Least the Prince wonít be around to slow us up, letís hope it doesnít turn out he was the lucky one.